


Trueshot Remedy

by bideru



Series: Tales from Silvermoon [5]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst and Feels, Astalor’s wife is technically a real WoW character but her entire plot is mine, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Healing, I Will Go Down With This Ship, a bro away from brome if you will, brief salandria mention, dal'diel is hot shit, free salandria, i just... i really like them okay, i really can't write anything without mentioning hawkstriders, kelantir is a real bro, running away is clearly the answer to all conflict, sometimes you get angry and have to stab trees, when your love gets attacked by a mountain lion it's best to stand back and not help at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24866617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bideru/pseuds/bideru
Summary: The Alliance and the Horde can't seem to work together as factions, and with the threat of the Burning Legion, they decide to try a different approach. A call for hunters to man Trueshot Lodge in Highmountain finds Halduron Brightwing face to face with his lost love, for the first time since the Forsaken broke free of the Lich King's will.This is a sequel toLittle Lynx.
Relationships: Halduron Brightwing/Dark Ranger Velonara, Liadrin/Lor'themar Theron, Nathanos Blightcaller/Sylvanas Windrunner, background Astalor Bloodsworn/OC, one-sided Moorgoth/Velonara
Series: Tales from Silvermoon [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1747684
Comments: 20
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

Highmountain was beautiful. Filled with towering pines and deep, clear lakes from which fat salmon swam in tremendous schools, all the way up the tall mountains capped with pure, white snows, Highmountain held a certain beauty one could not get in the eternal spring of Quel’Thalas. The wind left something to be desired, however, and Halduron Brightwing pulled at his thick cloak more tightly and hunkered down closer to the neck of the elderhorn borrowed from Thunder Totem. The beast snorted, as if laughing at the elf’s discomfort, and pawed passively at the ground.

He had wanted to bring Dal’diel, had ridden his trusty hawkstrider through the portal and argued vehemently with Loren Stormhoof. But the Highmountain tauren had insisted that the mountains were far too cold for a hawkstrider, that Dal’diel would surely take ill in the chill air. Birds were delicate creatures, the tauren had said, and Halduron had bristled. Dal’diel had carried him to battle against troll and undead and demon alike, never faltering, never wavering. His cruel beak had snapped the bones of their foes, his strong legs had carried them faster than wind. Dal’diel was a creature of the forests, just as much as he, and had every right to make the journey to Highmountain and Trueshot Lodge with him. 

But in the end, Halduron had been forced to relent, as Dal’diel had slipped as just before they’d reached Thunder Totem. The river, colder and more violent than either had expected, had startled the bird, and his feet had been the perfect size to stick in the small wedges in the rocky riverbed. He was stabled at the Highmountain capital, his leg broken, and while Loren assured Halduron his bird would have ever warm comfort and the highest care, Halduron still worried, in the back of his mind. Dal’diel was like family.

The elderhorn was no replacement for his bird, and his thighs ached at the end of the day, but even Halduron had to admit, with the moose’s large hooves and easy gait, it made for a bit easier going along the mountain trails, which were so much different than the trails of the Amani mountains.

Halduron chuckled and patted the beast’s shoulder. “I know,” he said. “You think me weak. I assure you, moose, were you in my country, our roles would be quite the opposite.”

The elderhorn snorted again. 

Halduron saw to it that the beast was fed and watered, a blanket thrown over its back for the coming night, before latching its stall. He peeked into the other stalls as he went, out of sheer curiosity. Kelantir Bloodblade’s own hawkstrider had survived the trek, and she had bundled the bird’s legs in warm cloth to stave off the chill; he patted the bird fondly. There were kaldorei nightsabers, quel’dorei unicorns, dwarven rams, sturdy mountain horses, kodo, wolves, and even an elekk. And so many elderhorn for those whose mounts were more accustomed to a more sunny climate. (The gnomes had crafted a separate building for their mechs, to keep the gears from freezing.) Halduron had never seen so many different animals in one place, and if it weren’t for Lor’themar’s words － that his journeying to Highmountain was to be a _mission,_ a collaborative effort between all races to stop the Legion － he might have just bedded down right there in the stables and _observed._

He had to admit, when Lor’themar had put the idea to him, he hadn’t been enthused. 

_“We’ve tried this, Lor,” he’d said. “Over and over again. We’ve_ **_tried_ ** _to work together, Alliance and Horde. Look what happened the last time the sin’dorei worked with the Alliance.”_

_“I agree,” said Lor’themar, before throwing back the last of his good ale. “This time, however, there is something you all can agree on.”_

_Halduron puffed aggressively on his thistle. “What?”_

_“Perhaps if we divide based on our strengths,” Lor’themar said carefully. “A Farstrider amongst a group of Farstriders is far more likely to work well than amongst a group of mages, yes?”_

_Halduron laughed. “You say that like I haven’t been working with Rommath for decades.”_

_“And how has that worked for us?” Lor asked, grinning._

_“We haven’t killed each other.” Halduron grinned back. His friend rolled his eyes._

_“You’ll be amongst like-minded people,” Lor’themar assured him. “Farstriders, mountaineers, sentinels_ －”

_Halduron cut him off. “Hunters.”_

_“Essentially.”_

_Halduron sighed. “When do I leave?”_

It was startling, being in a place populated with Alliance without anyone dying. Not to say there hadn’t been fights. An orc and a human had gotten into a brawl that dragged in all their friends before the Highmountain tauren had been able to intervene. A group of worgen had insulted both factions so badly the day before Halduron’s arrival that Loren had had an entire shopping list of medical supplies to haul up from Thunder Totem. There were still a few trolls with broken tusks walking around, old, blackened blood coagulated around the breaks.

The Forsaken were also here, Halduron knew, their mounts stabled in a separate building. He didn’t like to think about it. He talked pleasantly with the few hunters he ran into, sure. But he couldn’t pretend his heart didn’t race every time he caught sight of an inky black cloak. If he didn’t think about the Forsaken, he wouldn’t remember the dark rangers. And if he didn’t remember the dark rangers, he could stop himself from wondering if the face under every hood was _hers._

“Brightwing!” boomed a dwarf from a roaring campfire, and Halduron needed no guesses as to its owner. “You’re back! Come, sit! We’ve just been learning how old Beastbreaker here got his name!” A true _hunter_ in every sense of the word, Hemet Nesingwary made the elf uneasy. He didn’t quite understand the need to slaughter vast amounts of animals for _sport_.

“One gets lonely in the woods, I’d imagine,” slurred Pierce, his complex ruddy and a grin oozing over his face. His tankard was near as large as Nesingwary’s, though Halduron would bet his year’s salary that the sentry was sloshed and the dwarf merely quenching a thirst.

“It _is_ lonely in the woods,” Tagh agreed. He was leaning against a tamed black bear (a hard won victory, if the vicious slash marks across his face meant anything), a haunch of meat in one hand and a mug of ale in the other. Every so often, he’d tip one or the other to the bear before bringing them back to his own mouth.

Beastbreaker grimaced. “You’re disgusting, the lot of you.” And it wasn’t clear if he was speaking of the implied _beastbreaking_ or of Tagh’s eating habits.

It came unbidden, like the sudden cool rush of the wind or the quick fall of the night. As if in another life, he heard a different voice － a feminine voice, full of disdain. _“You’re disgusting.”_ He remembered the sweep of hardened blue eyes, the sun shining on a golden halo of hair. Himself, in another life, cocky and young and stupid: _“I actually go by Halduron.”_ Perhaps because the words had issued from a Forsaken’s mouth…

He shook his head to clear it. He had plenty of reasons to deny Nesingwary’s company. This was yet another of them. 

* * *

“Two ales, Tomro.” Halduron didn’t believe in the Light, and hadn’t for a long time, but thank _whoever_ for the lodge’s bar. 

The pandaren was unsurprised. “I could pour you a bigger mug,” he said mildly. It was the same song and dance. Tomro knew how to read people, being a barkeep. He understood the difference between a happy drink and a sad. Halduron’s customary two ales were always one or the other, but － to him, at least － it was easy to tell when the elf wanted to pretend he lacked not for company. Tomro knew how to do that too. 

Halduron waved him off. “I’ll be done the first before you pour the second,” he mumbled. “A bigger mug keeps me from my alcohol.”

Tomro chuckled. “Ah, that it does.” He set the first before the elf. “Difficult today?”

“I don’t envy Highmountain its summer snows,” Halduron grumbled into his ale. They both knew the weather wasn’t the problem, but it wasn’t Tomro’s place to prod. He placed the second tankard down on the bar with a quiet _thunk._

“I don’t either,” he confided. “I hail from a summer isle myself.”

“Then you understand.”

And with a nod, Tomro moved on to his other customers, _understanding_ quite clearly Halduron’s need to sulk. 

It was harder here, than it had been in Quel’Thalas. In Quel’Thalas, Halduron had been… if not exactly _free_ then _freer,_ in the forests with his rangers. The forests had changed so dramatically since the Scourge. No longer the beautiful green havens he had enjoyed with _her,_ many of them were twisted, dead things, or strange, sickly abominations. It did not hurt him as he thought it would, to roam the forests of his youth, when it was so clear that those forests were not the same. The trees he had slept under, the banks he had laid on, the beaches he had snuck off to… Like _her,_ they existed whole and alive only in his memories.

In the city, without the distraction of the forests and their strange new shapes, he had often turned to the company of women. It felt wrong, when _she_ was out there, but _she_ was wrong, and the Scourge had taught him that bodies were useless, broken things, meaning little and less and existing only to be used and abused for pleasure or pain. He knew many a good Farstrider who had broken from the Scourge, who had erred too far on the side of pain, and some who ran so far into pleasure that it had become pain; but Halduron thought he’d found a good balance. He didn’t kiss these women and he treated them well, and when they began to want more than his desiccated heart could give, he sent them away.

He’d learned early on that paying for his pleasure, setting the parameters strictly through coin and not giving nor taking a copper more than allowed, was for the best. There was less attachment that way. Less heartbreak when his bedfellows ultimately learned that he was utterly ruined. That he could never love them back. That their tears and pleas produced in him no emotion at all.

And when that didn’t work, he did always have Lor’themar. Though deep inside it pained him, he lived vicariously through his dearest friend, who had not only the sort of timeless love Halduron himself had been denied, but a beautiful daughter with whom Halduron had whiled away many an hour. Liadrin spoke of Salandria’s affinity for the Light, her marvel progress as a paladin, and Lor’themar swelled with pride at Salandria’s command of both sword and bow; and Halduron was proud too, yes. But he still remembered the shy little girl she had been at first, six years old and afraid of Dal’diel, pressed closed against Lor’s chest. Halduron had taught her to climb trees, had taught her to catch fish in the clear, cool Elrendar. He loved that girl as his own, and Lor’themar and Liadrin had let him. Salandria wasn’t the score of children he had wanted, had sworn to have long ago. But she was real, she was _alive,_ and when his sister Bria visited with her own children, Halduron could almost pretend he had his family, and that _she_ was alive and breathing too.

But Salandria and his nephews were not here at Trueshot Lodge, and he could not, would not take any of these hunters to his bed. Not when _she_ might learn and be hurt by it.

“These dark rangers unsettle me,” a night elf murmured, sliding onto the stool beside him. Halduron knew without looking that it was Emmarel. She had made no secret of her distaste for the Forsaken, and Halduron knew from his close association with Tomro that she often felt the need for drink after speaking with them. “A whole flock of them by the door, like crows! It is _rude.”_

Tomro placed a little cup of soju before her and clicked his tongue. “They’re not dead,” he said quietly. “Just pretending to be.”

Emmarel wrinkled her nose. “In Elune’s name, why would anyone play at such a thing?” 

“Necrophilia,” supplied Grif Wildheart (and when had he gotten here?). Emmarel turned an alarming shade of teal and choked. Halduron lifted his drowsy head. He thought he might be frowning but he wasn’t properly in control of his facial muscles.

“What?” 

“That’s…” Emmarel’s pretty blue skin flushed to deep purple as she coughed. Tomro hastily placed a glass of water before her. 

“Don’t say such things before a lady!” the pandaren hissed. “I won’t have deaths in my bar.”

“That’s what they said!” the dwarf protested. He put on his best approximation of an elven voice as he swooned, “Oh, the dark rangers make me cock hard! I just want tae fuck one!”

Emmarel’s skin was teal again. “Please stop.”

Halduron couldn’t listen to this. He tossed some coin on the counter and left unsteadily. 

* * *

He spent a cold night in the watch tower. He didn’t want company. 

He didn’t know why Lor’themar had sent him here. Surely Kelantir or any of his ranger lords could have done just an adequate of a job. _They_ weren't sulking about, lost in memories.

His father had lost his wife in the Scourge. It had broken him, at the time. Broken him and Halduron and Bria, and his father had sworn he’d never remarry. But he had, only a few years ago, and Halduron’s stepmother was a kindly woman whose husband had passed before the Scourge. Halduron even liked her, had been happy when his father had sat him and Bria down, like children, and told them the news. His father was happy again, and Bria’s sons loved their new grandmother. 

His father’s story wasn’t unique. Plenty of people had lost loves, in the Scourge or the Last Stand of Quel’Danas, and they had found love again. But for every elf like his father, there were many just as broken as Halduron. He knew many personally. Astalor Bloodsworn, married to the Grand Magister’s sister. He wore her wedding ring around his neck after her death, his own on his hand. Halduron had worked closely with Astalor, after Kael’thas’s betrayal. He didn’t think the other man would ever remarry. He had made his peace with his wife’s death, Halduron thought, but he had told Halduron one night, returning to the Spire, that his wife had been his true love. That as long as he lived, she would always remain his true love, alive or no. He wanted no other, and when he finally passed into the Shadowlands, he knew she would be waiting for him. It had sounded like something priests told the devoted, to ward off cheaters and adultery, but Astalor’s words had brought tears to his eyes, because… 

(He had refused to indulge the thought at the time. Astalor had held him like Bria had held him when he was a small, crybaby child, because Halduron didn’t think _she_ had a soul anymore. He didn’t think _she_ would be waiting for him in the Shadowlands when he died. He didn’t know if _she_ could die at all now.)

He didn’t want to think about it. 

He was near frozen when he’d been relieved that morning, meeting the eyes of Rumelda Bloodslur only long enough to nod before plodding back to the lodge, his cloak and a thick blanket wrapped tightly around himself. He shared a few nods with people and thought seriously about asking Tomro for a coffee, or at least hot wine. 

“－just talking to Moorgoth and－”

“You mean that moping, black-clad imbecile?” 

Halduron started. As desperately as he had wished _she_ had not been here, a part of him had hoped…

Velonara stood less than a hundred yards from him, her proud features twisted in a sneer. “Yes, I’ve noticed him,” she grumbled to the goblin before her. "He’s not the first mortal to obsess over a dark ranger.”

Halduron felt all the breath leave his lungs. If he kept walking, if he deviated not a foot from his path, he would pass by her and her goblin companion and she would be none the wiser. But he couldn’t. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to see her in ten years, not since that awful day, not since she was newly undead, but that didn’t mean… 

(That didn't mean he didn't still _love her..._ )

She sniffed. “I don’t understand the fascination some have with death. He should spend his time pursuing the living, not longing for a dalliance with one who has already passed.” Her scowl was still the same as Halduron remembered, etched into his mind after centuries. “Life is often wasted on the living.” 

The goblin － Halduron did not know this one － titled his head. “Sounds like you miss your old life there.” He held a bouquet of black flowers.

The scowl the ranger gave him was fierce. “I was a young ranger in the service of Silvermoon, betrothed to the man of my dreams. Until Arthas came. He slaughtered me like an animal and cut a scar through the land I loved.”

The fires had burned, Halduron remembered, hot and hungry, consuming trees and dead flesh in their attempt to halt the Scourge as they'd stormed up the Greenwood Pass, leaving nothing but blackened earth and bodies in their wake. He had survived on pure adrenaline, hacking at every corpse, praying that none bore her face. 

“－damned my soul. You’ll have to pardon me if I have little patience for imbeciles like _Moorgoth,_ who take for granted what they have and think to find happiness in pain.” Velonara’s hands had hardened into fists. 

The goblin looked sympathetic. “Aw, c’mon, kiddo. He doesn’t seem like such a bad guy.” He showed her the flowers. “Practically begged me to bring you these.” He eyed them a bit warily and Velonara huffed. “I know he’s a bit _whacked,_ but _…_ he got you flowers.” The goblin grinned.

Halduron had given her fields of flowers over the centuries. Midsummer burning blossom crowns, peacebloom bouquets, the strange bloodvines that grew in Zul Aman… Clumps of purple moss and interesting bits of clover, petals he had picked up on his travels… He felt sick, watching this stranger try and woo Velonara by proxy. He had not wooed Velonara. Velonara had just… _happened._

Velonara was staring at the black flowers oddly. Hesitantly, she reached out to stroke one of the petals. It crumpled at her touch. 

“I suppose he can’t help his ignorance,” she sighed. Her voice was soft. “But he must realize my heart is incapable of feeling love or happiness… I am a dead, rotting thing, and only the abyss awaits me.”

The goblin looked dismayed. 

“If you harbor any fondness for him at all, break his heart now.” A bitter note crept in. “It will save him true pain later.”

The goblin sighed. “Alright, kiddo.” He wiggled the bouquet, showering their feet with delicate black petals. “You want the flowers?”

There was a pause. 

“No,” Velonara said at last. “I do not think I could accept them.”

Halduron watched the goblin shuffle off with his damnable black flowers. He felt rooted to the spot, unable to move from the first moment he had heard Velonara’s voice. Her armor was dark leather, her hood covering her hair, but she was still… 

_The same as when they had parted, her eyes alight with excitement. Her lips had been warm and her heart beat fast, anxious about the trek to Lordaeron with Ranger General Sylvanas. The dawn had lit the sky in pinks and oranges and the air was sweet. He’d laughed then, carefree, teasing her for her nerves. He’d boosted her into her saddle for the excuse to touch her, his hand on her calf as she leaned down and gave him one last, chaste kiss._

_If he’d only known…_

“I should have never let you go,” Halduron murmured, his chest tightening. A deep wound had ripped open inside him, one he had thought had been long scabbed over. He had tried, over the years, to bandage it with alcohol and whores and his nephews and goddaughter but seeing Velonara here… Here in the flesh, if not alive then at least _real…_

There came a sharp gasp. He watched as if in slow motion as Velonara’s ears flicked in his direction and the turn of her head followed. Her eyes, no longer blue but a deep, ruby red widened in shock. The world had narrowed; they were the only two people in it. 

When she spoke, her voice shook. 

“Halduron…”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Velonara remembers when she was alive, and receives some tough love from a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank the blood elves' sad history for making this story possible and feeding my neverending appetite for angst. It's just too easy to write The Big Sads when your characters are blood elves.

Being undead was not altogether a _pleasant_ experience, in Velonara’s opinion. It had its uses, she supposed. She no longer needed to breathe, nor eat, nor sleep, and these were advantages to flaunt in the service of the Dark Lady. While her living compatriots in the Horde were forced to rest, she and her rangers were always moving, always watching. It made them far more effective than they had any right to be, in her opinion. There was a reason the dark rangers were feared. 

But with all its assets, being undead left something to be desired. Boredom was common among the Forsaken. When one needed no sleep, spent no time gathering and preparing food, that left far too many hours in the day. Muscles stiffened easily, and far too many Forsaken found themselves short a limb when trying to loosen it up. There was always the ever present chill that permeated one’s bones, no matter how many layers one donned or how close one sat to the fire. In Highmountain, the chill was enough to turn her bloodless skin blue on a cold night. 

But even undeath was better than dying. Velonara had no desire to repeat that particular moment of her life, skewered through with that wretched blade, her last breath punched out of her and her eyes screwed up in pain. At least the undead could not feel pain. Not really. 

The truly decayed could not _feel_ at all. 

She had been surprised when Sylvanas had assigned her to Trueshot Lodge. She had risen in the ranks, just as she’d always wanted, but surely Lenara or Anya would be the better choice? But Anya had been assigned to the Broken Shore and Lenara sent to train Unseen recruits and the task had fallen to Velonara. Not to say she wasn’t pleased － she had proven herself most admirably at the Scarlet Monastery, and to assume such a high position of leadership in the Unseen Path was surely her due reward. She had just…

To be perfectly honest, she had not wanted to come. Since her death, there had been a great many things she had not wanted to do. But Sylvanas had ordered it and so Velonara slung her quiver and bow over her shoulder, saddled her charger, and went. One did not refuse the Banshee Queen. 

The undead couldn’t feel pain, not really. And it was true that since her death, Velonara had felt very little. Condensation, and irritation, and boredom, sure. But feelings, true feelings － those were rare. 

“I should have never let you go.” 

The words, barely a whisper, came to her on the wind. Her ears flicked back, her eyes widened. She knew that voice, knew it as intimately as she knew herself. That voice had teased and insulted and yelled and murmured to her for hundreds of years before the Scourge. That voice had been a hot breath in her ear, panting and sensual; the cockiest of laughs accompanied by the brightest of smiles. That voice had built her up when she had worried, cheered her on when she stumbled. 

_“I just want to savor this,”_ that voice had breathed against her lips, when she had been alive. A lifetime ago. The very last thing that voice had ever said to her, before she’d left that day.

 _“I love you,”_ that voice had said, shaking. _“If you can love me until the stars fall, then I can love you longer than that.”_

She had not heard that voice in so long, in ten years or more and yet… 

She felt as though she were underwater, her body slow and sluggish to respond. She turned, so agonizingly slowly. She did not know if she wanted to be mistaken or proven right.

But there he was. 

In that moment, Velonara forgot about Trueshot Lodge. She forgot about the Unseen Path and that imbecile Moorgoth, forgot about Sylvanas and the dark rangers, the death of Vol’jin and her own promotion. In that moment, all that existed or would ever exist stood before her, eyes wide like her own. They were green now, a deep emerald that reflected back to her the pain on her own face. 

The Forsaken didn’t feel pain anymore. Not really. But Velonara felt ripped in two, each half of her ragged and bleeding. His gifts had always caused her some semblance of discomfort, but this… This was like dying all over again. 

“Halduron…”

* * *

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what he _could_ say. 

There was a reason Halduron kept to the forests of Quel’Thalas. Rommath and Liadrin and even Lor’themar ventured far beyond its borders when called, but he had always steadfastly refused. He sent Kelantir or another ranger lord, always. Very few of their risen elves had chosen to return to Quel’Thalas, feeling out of place or hated or becoming too consumed with grief. He liked it that way. He had known far too many rangers. He could not bear to see them living a mockery of their lives. 

His heart pounded. He was consumed with a need to rush to her, to gather her in his arms as he had that awful day, and it took everything in him to stay put. He watched her, his eyes near perfect circles. His mind was blank.

A gloved hand had gone to Velonara’s chest, to the hollow of her collarbones. Pressed. Gripped tightly something beneath her shirt and armor. 

He had sent her a locket not so long ago. A present for the memory of the day of her birth. A small, elegant locket made of dark metal, chosen carefully to blend with the blacks of the dark rangers.

_She was wearing his locket._

“Y-you… you kept it.” His voice was a croak.

He watched her hand tighten around the hidden jewelry. “Do you want it back?” She spoke so softly he almost didn’t hear her.

“No.” Inside the locket was an inscription. He heard the words in his head every day, saw her face when he closed his eyes. _Until the stars fall and the Great Dark Beyond takes us, I will love you longer than you love me._ She had sworn her love to him on all the impossibilities and he had risen to it, had challenged her as he always had that if she could love him until the end of world, then he would love her far longer. He had said those words in grief over ten years ago and they were still true, the love he bore her threatening on some days to rip him apart. “I want _you_ back,” he breathed. His eyes burned.

He closed the distance between them in four strides. He reached for her, and the moment stretched. Her ruby eyes were wide as saucers, her face stiff and jaw set, and the seconds dragged on for years. Years without her by his side, years without her warm in his bed, without her scowl or teasing remarks, without the life they had sworn to carve out together. Halduron reached across the years for her, and slowly, hesitantly, Velonara reached back. Her hand was stiff in his, the leather of her glove not properly broken in without a pulse to warm it, and his heart was in his throat as he ran his thumb over the ridges of her knuckles. He had not seen Velonara in over ten years, and his eyes drank in the sight of her. The smooth lines of her face and her aquiline nose, her plump lips, the almond shape of her eyes. The hint of golden hair peeking from just under her hood. He reached his free hand up, his thumb brushing the high leather collar of her armor; twisted a lock of that hair in his fingers. She allowed him the intimacy of it, her lips trembling, and the softest sound escaped from them. If she were alive, if she were able, he thought she would start crying right there.

He broke. He crushed her to him, her hood knocked askew, blonde hair spilling into the morning sun. His hand snaked through it, cupping the back of her head, and her arm went around him, firm against his back. She was cold but so was he, frozen from his lonely night atop the watchtower, and she gasped into the blanket around his shoulders. 

“Velonara,” he murmured into the shell of her ear. He had so much he wanted to say to her, so much to tell her. How stupid and sorry he was and how desperately he had missed her every moment of every day since for the past ten years. “Velonara, I－”

Her hand had balled into a fist against his back. “S-stop.” Her voice betrayed her, told him to hold her and never let her go again. “Halduron, please. Stop.” She pushed against him, tried to pull away. 

“Vel－”

“We can’t.” Her voice was shaking and muffled, buried as it was against his chest. “Let me go.”

* * *

How wonderful it felt to be back in Halduron’s arms. To feel him firm against her, here and now and real; to hear his heart hammering through his leathers. His hand was in her hair and his breath was in her ear and for ten years Velonara had wanted nothing else. Had just wanted to go back. To Quel’Thalas, to Halduron. To go home.

“Stop.” 

It broke her to say it, when everything in her body screamed _please_ and _more_ and _I’ve missed you._ Desperately, she wanted claw at him, cling to him, never leave him ever again. She needed him like she’d once needed air, and his trembling under her fingers said he felt the same.

She pushed him away.

“Halduron, we can’t.” She willed herself to be strong. Weren’t the Forsaken known for their iron will? She could not give herself back to him, no matter how badly she wished to. She was a dead, rotting thing, kept whole and sentient by dark magic, and she had said as much to the goblin who had brought her Moorgoth’s ridiculous flowers. She was no longer the woman she had been, young and ignorant and _free_ in the forests of Quel’Thalas. She was bound to Sylvanas in undeath as in life, chained to this cursed half life, and what was left of her soul was sworn to in service to the Banshee Queen, not to Quel’Thalas. Sylvanas had not cared for Quel’Thalas in a long time.

She could not stand here in Halduron’s arms and pretend everything was alright. That she was not dead and he alive. She loved him. She did. But things were not so simple anymore.

“Velonara.” He looked as broken as she felt, feelings laid bare before her. The hand that held hers was loose and if she wanted, she could easily pull it away. She didn’t want to. 

She took her hand back. 

“I must go.” Was that the look he had worn when he’d heard of her death? Did he truly miss her (as she missed him), or were his heaving chest and tears precursor to another rejection, another whispered _I’m sorry_ at their situation?

“Wait.” Halduron reached for her once more, and it took her iron will to take a step backwards. 

“I have to go,” she repeated, not wanting to. She balled her fists at her sides. “It was good－” her voice cracked “－to see you.”

“Velonara!”

She fled.

* * *

The Forsaken did not sleep nor dream, but Velonara had dreamed of Halduron. From the moment she had first met him, he had been a constant presence in her life. Bumbling, stupid, _loud_ Halduron, and if she was not watching his continuous attempts at causing his own death, she was steadfastly ignoring him and the headaches he caused. It should not have been possible for her to fall for Halduron Brightwing. 

But she had.

He nagged at her, irritated her, made her vision go red and more than once she had loosed a hail of arrows at an innocent tree in lieu of murdering him with her own two hands. He inspired more tirades than compliments, rose through the Farstrider ranks sheerly out of the benefit of his friendship with Lor’themar Theron, while Velonara was continually overlooked despite her hard work, and it was one day that Alina had rolled her eyes and snapped _Just fuck him or shut up already_ that she even entertained the notion of _not_ disliking him. 

_“What?” Her eyes narrowed and her eyebrows raised and if she weren’t balanced on a tree branch, she might have just whirled around and smacked Alina in the face._

_“Either fuck him. Or. Shut up,” her friend repeatedly, slowly as though speaking to a child._

_“I don’t want to fuck Brightwing,” Velonara snapped. Alina snorted._

_“Are you certain?”_

_Velonara drew her knife and stabbed it at a knot in the wood. “He’s disgusting,” she snarled. “Imbecilic, uncultured_ － _”_

_“Your habit of nesting in trees is hardly cultured,” Alina pointed out._

_“_ － _lazy, and probably fucking Theron or one of the ranger lords,” she spat. “He certainly didn’t attain Lieutenant on his own merits.”_

 _“He’s not as terrible as he was,” Alina said diplomatically. “He’s fought off two Amani raids_ － _”_

_“With help.”_

_“_ － _he’s always lending a hand or tending to the hawkstriders_ － _”_

_“When he isn’t sitting around on his ass.”_

_“_ － _and he’s_ _quite_ _handsome.”_

_Velonara made a face. “He has a face like a simpleton.”_

_Alina grinned. “And the ass of_ － _”_

_“Why are you looking at his ass?” Velonara said sharply. It bothered her, and she didn’t know why._

_Her friend laughed. “How could I not? The way his leathers hug it so. The curve of his ass is the stuff of dreams, Vel.” She had a wicked twinkle in her eye. “Lilana and I have debated if his dick curves as well_ － _”_

 _“Stop!” Velonara’s cheeks flamed. She did not want to think about the curve of Brightwing’s ass or the supposed curve of his dick. She did not want to have this conversation_ － _and with Alina, who was supposed to be her friend and her supporter in all things!_

_She did not want to admit that she found him attractive (though of course his intense stupidity made him decidedly not so), and she did not want Alina pointing that out._

_Her friend’s grin was hellish. “You fancy him,” she said._

_“I will push you out of this tree and leave you for the trolls,” Velonara threatened._

_“As long as you run back the Enclave and fuck him silly, I shall consider it a price well paid.”_

_She’d steadfastly ignored her friend and her ridiculous words. No way in all the seven hells would she ever fuck Halduron Brightwing. And yet, that night, as they all drank to excess on the beach, celebrating the new recruits, the successful Amani raid, and just plain drinking, Velonara had watched him. Splashing in the surf with Lor’themar Theron, sharing a bottle and a pipe full of thistle with his friends, Velonara had watched the long, lean lines of his body, the way the water ran down his chest, glimmering in the moonlight. He’d cast off his armor onto the sand, clad only in his smallclothes, and his damp hair fell down his back She watched him scuffle with Koltira and Faltora in the sand, throwing the brothers down and whooping in victory, and if she were truly honest with herself, he did have a nice backside._

_“You’re all animals,” she scoffed, safe and dry with Alina and Lenara and Lilana, and beside her, Alina and Lilana exchanged a look._

_“Animals?” Brightwing laughed cockily. “Lor, did you hear that? She called us animals.” He swayed a little from drink, sharing thistle with Theron, and Theron grinned._

_“She did.” Theron took the pipe from him and inhaled deeply._

_“Always picking on him,” Alina whispered conspiratorially._

_“Quite a good looking animal though,” Lilana giggled. Velonara drank and pretended not to hear them._

_“Loosen up,” Brightwing urged. He took a step towards her, and then another. Alina nudged Lenara. Velonara’s ears flamed._

_“Brightwing…” she warned._

_He grinned, dropping to his knees and leaning forward, pressing her nearly into the dunes at her back. His blue eyes were silver in the moonlight, and crinkled attractively in the corners. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice a full octave lower than normal (and it_ _did_ _things to her, she thought furiously), “you would have more fun if you were more_ _animal._ _”_

_She felt naked beneath his stare, and perhaps it was the alcohol (it was definitely the alcohol) or perhaps she really find him attractive (she did not, she told herself), but his lips were mere inches from her own and she found herself wondering, for the briefest moment, what it would feel like to kiss them._

_She shrieked as he scooped her into his arms, the sand clinging to him rough against her skin, and he hauled her off in the direction of the bay. “You need to have fun!” he gasped, laughing in her ear, and suddenly she was in the air, he had thrown her into the water, and her hands flew out, grabbing for purchase that wasn’t there. She was too intoxicated for this, she didn’t want to swim, she felt so exposed before him._

_She found his hand and seized it and he was pulling her up and he was laughing_ － _too loud and too drunk, and she sputtered and spat the salt water from her mouth._

_“I’ve saved you!” he exclaimed, and she looked at him indignantly. He had tried to drown her! “I’ve rescued the damsel Velonara!”_

_She splashed him. “I am no damsel!” she growled, but he held her hand and when had they become so close? Her thigh brushed against his hip as she bobbed in the water, and she was acutely aware that she was touching him, her front flat against his. She felt hot despite the cold water, wondered if he could feel it too. She lay her hands against his chest, intending to push him away, to drown him as he’d tried to drown her, but she didn’t. She found herself suppressing a smile. His intoxicated glee was infectious._

_“You like this,” he challenged, and his arm had curled around her, supporting her as she clung to him. His heart beat fast under her hands, and her own beat so loudly she was sure he could hear it too._

_She did like this, she realized. Brightwing was warm and firm underneath her, his hold safe and strong. She snaked a hand up his chest, felt him stiffen beneath her, and took a strand of his blonde hair in her fingers. Such an intimate touch, stroking his hair. She brushed a lock of it out of his eyes._

_“Maybe I do.” And when had she gone from hating Halduron Brightwing to kissing him? His lips were soft and the noise of surprise he let slip ran straight to her sex. His arm around her tightened and his hand found the back of her head and he kissed her like he would die without her. He tasted like salt and smoke and liquor and she shivered, her blood roaring in her ears, and she threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled him to her, held him against her lips as she kissed him hungrily. Their tongues slid against each other, and his hand slid down to cup her ass, and there was no one else in the world._

* * *

Plenty of people had lost loves to the Scourge. Even some of her own fellow dark rangers. Alina had sobbed without tears as she’d driven her arrow through the throat of her wife, still a minion of the Lich King. Lenara’s husband had chased her from their home, screaming that his wife was dead and she a mockery of the memory. Even Sylvanas, queen of them all, had not been spared, and Velonara remembered the cries of anguish from her commander as they had found Nathanos Marris, mindless and enslaved. Remembered the Banshee Queen’s solemn declaration that she would free Nathanos, that she would not suffer undeath without him nor he without her. Velonara had stood by faithfully as Sylvanas commanded her great power, used all the dark magic granted to her by that cursed blade, and when Nathanos came back to her, his eyes focused once again in recognition, the ache in Velonara’s own unbeating heart was so great that she’d had to excuse herself. It wasn’t fair.

Nothing in this world was fair, she’d learned. Not her death, watching her company slaughtered at the hands of the Scourge, her impalement upon Arthas’s blade. The deaths of her dreams and the life she’d wanted with Halduron. And certainly not her new life. She had done many things in service to Sylvanas, things of which she was not always proud, but Sylvanas had saved her. Had freed her from Arthas’s control. She was no longer a Farstrider in Quel’Thalas, free to do and love as she pleased. She owed what little of her soul remained to the Dark Lady, and Sylvanas had made it clear early on that she thought Velonara’s relationship with her living betrothed was unhealthy. A thing to be best forgotten quickly and quietly.

She stabbed viciously at the branch on which she was sitting. 

“What has the tree done to you?”

Below her stood Alina, her hood obscuring her eyes. She had not known Alina had arrived in Highmountain. She didn’t even know how long she’d been sitting (hiding) in the tree.

“Fuck off.” She pried her knife from the wood, only to stab into it again. She didn’t care if she wrecked the edge.

Silent as a shadow, Alina was beside her in an instant. Her red eyes were concerned. As concerned as the undead got, anyway. She watched Velonara stab the tree. 

“You’ve seen Halduron.” It was not a question. 

“You knew he would be here?” Velonara asked sharply. 

“Who would come in his place?” Alina snatched the knife away. “Don’t take your anger out on the tree,” she chastised.

“What shall I take it out on then?” 

Alina sighed. Shoved the knife into her own belt. “If I could, I would have come in your place,” she said. “Sylvanas－”

“Has other machinations.” Velonara closed her eyes. She was ostensibly the best choice the lead the Forsaken rangers, she knew, with Nathanos’s… _promotion._ He should have been here. He could face Halduron straight of face. He could have wrangled himself into decency and propriety, having no feelings for Halduron other than the residual anger at the elf’s long ago teasing. 

Her friend shifted. She did not ask questions. When her wife had died, Velonara had asked no questions of her, being only a shoulder to lean on as her heart broke once more. She had helped Alina burn the body, had helped to bury the ashes. Alina had mourned privately, and Velonara had given her space, and for the past decade her friend had given her the space needed to mourn Halduron. 

“Why do you continue to let this happen?” Alina looked at her sharply. “Why do you hold onto the ring and not the man?”

“I am dead,” Velonara growled. 

“And he still loves you.” They had had this argument many times before. 

“He is _alive,_ and I am dead,” she repeated. “What relationship we had cannot continue. It is not right, nor fair, nor…”

“He loves you,” Alina said again. “For ten years, has he not continued to send you trinkets and flowers and gifts? Who else among us can say they have been so fortunate?”

Velonara glared at her. “Nothing about our situation is fortunate,” she snarled.

“Your heart does not beat but it still breaks.” Alina frowned at her. “Either make your peace with him or return to him.” 

“You say that like it’s easy.” 

“I know it isn’t.” They both remembered Lenara, how she had sobbed in her apartments for her husband. How six years later she’d broken down at learning of his remarriage, yanked the ring from her finger and hurled it into the canal. 

Velonara bit her lip. She ran a finger over her own ring, safe under her glove. She had tried to return it, ten years ago. Halduron hadn’t let her. If she tried now, she knew he'd still refuse.

“It won’t be the same,” Alina acknowledged quietly. “And that will hurt. But I can’t continue to watch you suffer because you refuse to speak to him.”

“He’s－”

“He has made it clear that he still wants you, Velonara.” Her friend pushed the hood from her face to glare. “In whatever way. He has made that clear for ten years. And now you are both _here_ until Sylvanas and Lor’themar recall you home. Ask any of the rangers you’ve brought with you: Very, very few of us have anyone living who loves us as Halduron loves you.”

Velonara scowled. 

“If you love him as you say you do, then you must speak to him while you have this time,” Alina ordered. “Make clear where you stand. He is not dead, no. And perhaps you and he cannot be wed, but you can at least be _friends,_ you idiot.”

She scoffed. Friends. After all they had been through. 

“And if you will not,” Alina continued, “then return his ring and his locket and throw away all his gifts and _let him go.”_

She slumped against the tree. Not for the first time, she wondered if she had offended some higher power － the Light, or Elune, An’she, _whoever._ Why else would fate have seen to it that her life, her _un_ life play out this way? She could not let go of Halduron Brightwing. She had tried. Light and Shadow, she had _tried._

_I love you,_ she had told him, ten years ago. _And I will always love you, until the stars do fall from the sky, until the dragons age and turn to dust, and the Great Dark Beyond takes us all. I will always love you._

 _There won’t be anyone else,_ he had sworn to her. _I gave myself to you, long ago. If you can love me until the stars fall, then I can love you longer than that._

Velonara drew her knees up to her chest and buried her head in her arms. She closed her eyes and saw his, broken and hurting, staring desperately back at her. She forced herself to breathe, in and out, as though she still needed air. Forced herself to stay together. Beside her, Alina lay a gentle hand on her leg.

“You are my friend,” she said quietly. “I only wish you to be at peace.” 

And though she nodded into her arms, Velonara was not sure what _at peace_ meant. Not anymore. But Alina was right. For as long as she was assigned to Highmountain, she had the time to figure it out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halduron ditches work and opens up to Kelantir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been five thousand years but I'm still working on this fic! I just did the "Most Loyal" quest chain of BFA (where you side with Sylvanas) and the suspicious lack of Velonara involvement made me want to revisit this.

“Brightwing!” Kelantir barked. “Get up!”

Halduron groaned. He pulled the thick furs closer, burrowed further beneath them. If he ignored her, maybe she would go away.

She did not go away.

“Damnit, Halduron!” He felt a shift in the furs, and before he could clench his fists around them they were yanked off, exposing him to the chill of a Highmountain morning. 

“Leave m’ ‘lone!” he grumbled, curling in on himself. He was hungover and tired and Kelantir could easily take care of his duties for the next few hours. 

“Ranger General Brightwing,” Kelantir hissed. “It is  _ bad form _ to sleep later than your subordinates.”

“Fuck my subordinates.”

“Just how much did you drink last night?”

“Not enough apparently.” 

Kelantir shoved him. “Get up! Honestly, how did you end up as  _ Ranger General?” _ she asked, exasperated.

“M’ sister says that all the time,” he muttered. “Give me the furs back, it’s cold!”

“It’s past eight bells!” She whapped him on the leg. “The  _ hawkstriders _ need tending to, Halduron.” 

(She was playing dirty, using the hawkstriders like that.)

“Dal’s not even here.” Halduron threw an arm over his face. “Tend to your own ‘striders.”

“Nimi needs to be inspected before she leaves the lodge,” Kelantir growled. “And Venn’ren has been asking for you. Something about sabers, I don’t fucking know.”

“Nimi passes,” Halduron mumbled. “You can handle Venn’ren.”

She smacked him again. “I swear on the Sunwell, you’ve gotten worse since coming here.”

“Imagine that,” he said dryly. 

He earned another smack for his cheek. 

“I’m not your mother, Halduron,” Kelantir chided. “I’m not going to pull you from your bed and dress you. Get your ass  _ up.” _ And she stalked off, her boots clomping loudly on the lodge’s floor. 

She took the furs. 

Asshole.

* * *

He slumped into the stables ten minutes later and snatched the waiting mug of coffee from the railing. 

“You look like death,” Kelantir commented. 

“If only.” 

He nursed the hot drink for as long as he could, letting it warm his hands and basking in the steam on his face.

“Honestly, Halduron.” His second shot him a look over her shoulder as she ran a hand down her hawkstrider’s legs. She clicked her tongue and the bird lifted his foot obediently for inspection. “Are you alright? You don’t seem… all there.”

Kelantir had not been there, during the Scourge. Had not seen what Velonara’s undeath had done to him. Had not been in his company. But she knew the rumors. The whole of the Farstriders knew that the Ranger General’s finacée had been raised as Scourge. Some even knew that she now served Sylvanas. 

Kelantir had been his second for a long time, had proven herself trustworthy and reliable. Still. He never confided in Farstriders. The camaraderie he’d once shared as a brother of the forest had been shattered at seeing so many of his own brothers and sisters massacred at the hands of Arthas Menethil and his undead army. Kelantir Bloodblade was a good Ranger Lord, a good second. Had been a pillar of strength when he’d wanted desperately to crawl in a hole and die. But she knew little of him other than rumors. 

He sighed. Picked up the feed bag and let himself into the stall belonging to Venn’ren’s hawkstrider. 

“She’s here,” he said flatly. “Velonara.” 

(Every Farstrider in Quel’Thalas knew the names of those who had fallen to the Scourge. Every Farstrider knew those who had been freed by Sylvanas and bound to her. And every Farstrider knew the name of the Ranger General’s lost love.)

Kelantir froze. Halduron saw her out of the corner of his eye, as he busied himself with Venn’ren’s bird. Ran a hand down the bird’s scaly legs, looking for lumps or cuts, feeling for tenderness. He clicked his tongue and the bird raised its foot without question; he picked a loose nail sheath from one of the talons.

“Shit,” his second murmured. He gave her a moment to think. He wondered how she would approach the subject. Kelantir was a kind, if strict, woman. He had never spoken of Velonara to her － or indeed, to anyone who was not Lor’themar or Rommath. Would she coddle him? Tell him to toughen up? Pity him?

(He didn’t know which was worse. He wished he hadn’t said anything.)

“Let’s go riding,” Kelantir said at last. “There’s a nice bluff about an hour or so north. You can see the entire valley.”

And wasn’t that just like Kelantir? 

They saddled their mounts － Kel her bird and Halduron his borrowed elderhorn. Packed lunch. Strapped the spare climbing equipment and slipped on the bridles. Elderhorn bridles had a piece called a bit, a bar of metal that went in the beast’s mouth and attached to the reins. Unicorns and the blood knight chargers had bridles of similar design, and Halduron had heard it was due to their more stubborn natures. That was a joke, in his opinion. In all his life, he had never met a more stubborn creature than a hawkstrider. He didn’t like to use bits when he rode, didn’t like the idea of the solid little bar yanking at the soft corners of his mounts’ mouths. There was no animal that needed a bit to control, he’d found, so long as they were listened to. He’d removed the piece in his borrowed bridle, and his elderhorn seemed grateful. 

Riding an elderhorn was different from riding a hawkstrider, or even a horse. Whereas Dal’diel was quick, skittish, and went everywhere at a brisk trot, the elderhorn moved much more slowly. It was placid and careful, and few things spooked it. Halduron liked the beast, but he would be glad to hop back in Dal’s saddle. Not for the first time, his thoughts wandered back to his bird back at Thunder Totem. The stable master had assured him that Dal’diel would have every comfort as his leg healed, but Halduron worried. (How could he even trust people who didn’t  _ name _ their mounts?)

As if sensing his unrest, the moose let out a quiet grumble, pulling Halduron out of his head. “Sorry,” he murmured, patting its thick neck. 

Kelantir kept up a steady stream of chatter as they rode, filling him in on all he’d missed while he’d overslept. There had been another fight, she told him, between three humans and a goblin. She wasn’t sure if the goblin was one of theirs. It didn’t matter, really. No one had been seriously injured, he didn’t think. He didn’t know. He’d actually stopped listening at some point. 

By the Sunwell and Silvermoon herself, he would have loved to bring Velonara here. 

In a way, Highmountain was uncannily like the Amani Mountains. A little colder, and of course there was all the foreign wildlife, but the  _ feel _ was the same. The great calm that settled over the air. The sounds of birds and running water. The quiet crunch of leaves and brush, and the gentle whistle of the wind in the trees. He thought, perhaps, under different circumstances, that he could love these mountains just as much as the ones at home.

Halduron was cold when they finally stop for lunch. (If Rommath were here, he would no doubt be having an aneurysm over this. A leisurely ride in the mountains was  _ not _ was Halduron was here to do. But Rommath was in Suramar and probably buried in some musty tome or another, and his words couldn’t reach Halduron here.) He dismounted and pulled his lunch from the saddlebag, finding a spot under a nearby tree to lean his tired body against. 

(Trees in Highmountain were so  _ tall. _ When he’d first saw them, he’d been convinced the region had been a forest of world trees.)

Kelantir gave her hawkstrider a scritch along the neck. “Shoo,” she told the bird. “Go find your own lunch.” Her hawkstrider chittered irritably, trying to shove his beak in Kel’s pack.

“You spoil him,” Halduron remarked mildly. “He’d have better manners if you didn’t give him so many treats.”

“You’re one to talk,” Kelantir snapped. “Dal’diel is  _ the _ brattiest bird I’ve ever met.”

“Dal’diel thinks he is a god among birds,” Halduron agreed. “I’ve tried to curb his ego, but alas. It grows.”

His Ranger Lord grinned. “Sounds like someone else I know.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

* * *

“You want to talk about it?”

They’d finished eating some time ago. The wind blew softly, just enough to ruffle their hair, but the sun was out and the day was warm. The food had helped settle his stomach and he didn’t feel so shaky anymore. But nothing could settle his thoughts, which zoomed around in his mind like an addled hawkstrider. He couldn’t seem to focus on any one of them ﹣ every time he tried, his brain pulled it away and threw another in its place. 

Did he want to talk about it? No, not particularly. He never wanted to talk about it. Perhaps that was why he was still so fucked up, even after ten years. 

(That was something Lor’themar would say, albeit a little more crude. Halduron didn’t agree with Rommath on much, but both men were sure that Lor’themar’s propensity to  _ talk _ through his feelings ﹣ to admit he had feelings at all ﹣ was strange, almost unnatural.)

He sighed and leaned back against the tree. The bark was rough and uneven through the fabric of his shirt, helped to ground him in the here and now.

“What would you do,” he asked, “if you were me?”

Kelantir frowned at him. “What do you mean?” She was laying eagle-spread on the grass, her face turned towards the clouds, but at his words she sat up.

Halduron ran a hand through his hair. Velonara had told him once it looked nice when it was long, held back from his face only by a leather headband. Elves traditionally cut their hair in mourning, but Halduron had never been able to bring himself to do it. Countless nights he had spent, his head in Velonara’s lap as she combed her fingers through his hair, letting her make little braids with it, pull it back like he was some fancy aristocrat. Velonara had loved his hair, and he could not part with it.

“If you were in my place,” he repeated. “And your fiancée was risen as undead in the Scourge.”

Kelantir had worked with Halduron a long time. She knew little of his past but she  _ knew _ him. Knew how he looked when he was concentrating, tongue between his teeth; knew of his immense love for animals, and hawkstriders in particular. Knew of his tendency to overdrink and laugh too loudly, and of his notorious reputation as a lothario. Knew that when his eyes clouded over there was no talking to him, and that patrolling near Thalassian Pass, near the great necropolis that had once been Morningstar City, made him exceedingly uncomfortable. This was not something they had ever spoken of; Halduron avoided talk of the Scourge at all costs. Kelantir knew what to say to get Halduron to agree with her, to piss him off, to make him laugh; but she did not know what to say to this.

She picked a piece of grass from her short hair, and chose her words carefully. “I don’t know what you mean, Hal,” she said slowly. “But I suppose, if our positions were  _ exactly _ the same…” She bit her lip, hesitating. She didn’t want to upset the delicate balance that was Halduron Brightwing, when he had only just calmed. “So long as their mind was their own, I don’t know that anything would change. They would still be my fiancé. I would still love them.”

A pause. 

“I don’t suppose any of our brothers and sisters would understand,” she continued. “But I believe that that kind of bond… as long as I still lived, I would honor it. And I would hope they would too.”

Halduron scowled. “How would you even do that?” he asked irritably. “Who would accept you? The undead hate the living ﹣ they say as much all the time. And no self-respecting elf would cling to the dead.”

“But she is not dead,” Kelantir pointed out. “Just… a different sort of alive, really.” She played with the blade of grass, rolling it between her fingers. 

_ A different sort of alive? _

“And I don’t think the undead hate the living,” she continued. “The Forsaken anyway, not all of them. I think they’re sad, and envy that we kept our lives while they did not. I think they’re angry at the things they can no longer have, but I don’t think they’re angry at us for it.” She leaned back on one hand, and did not look at him. “I’m not saying it would be exactly the same,” she clarified. “I’m sure there would be… complications. And I’m sure we would be upset and angry at those complications. But…” She shrugged. “I would be happy that they had survived at all.”

Halduron considered her words. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought about it. As if he hadn’t replayed his last meeting with Velonara all those years ago over and over in his mind, as if he didn’t hate him for the reaction he’d had. Seeing her now, in her black leathers and heavy hood, the lump at her collar where his locket nestled… The look in her eyes was still the same, even if those eyes were red instead of the clear, crystal blue they’d been. The purse of her lips, paler than in life, and the wrinkle of her nose, and the golden crown of hair still tumbled down her shoulders as brilliantly as he remembered. 

By the Sunwell and all of Silvermoon herself, he was a fool. Perhaps he had been in shock all those years ago, but how did that excuse his actions since? How could he think that sending her flowers and shells and hawkstrider feathers, when he never even knew if she opened them, was enough? By the Sunwell, he loved her. Had never stopped loving her. Did she feel the same? 

(She had kept his ring.)

Had he not spent every night for the past ten years at the bottom of a bottle to keep the thoughts of her away? Had he not closed his eyes to every woman he’d brought to his bed so that he might see her face? Did she think of him that way? Were her every waking thoughts filled with memories and what ifs and  _ him? _

(She wore his locket. The one he’d sent just this year.)

He put his face in his hands. But she was  _ dead, _ wasn’t she? 

(Dead women did not appear at the hunter’s lodge, scowling and yelling at goblins.)

She was cold when he’d touched her (but he’d been cold too), her face pulled tight. (But not out of revulsion. Not out of horror.)

Fuck. Why was this life so hard? Why couldn’t he be Lor’themar? Why couldn’t  _ he _ go home to his beautiful wife and play with his beautiful daughter? Why had the universe seen fit to test him so? What had he ever done to deserve it? What had Lor’themar? 

(But that wasn’t fair, he knew. Wasn’t fair to compare himself to Lor’themar.)

Why couldn’t he be Astalor Bloodsworn? At peace with his wife’s death and content to live out his life until their reunion in the Shadowlands? Finding joy in the everyday as she once had, and begrudging no one else their own happiness?

(And that was not fair either, he knew. But he didn't think he could find the same solace in flowers and herbs that Astalor did.)

He exhaled, long and slow. “If you want to head back,” he said quietly, “I’ll be alright.”

He felt Kel’s eyes on him. “Are you sure?” she asked. She seemed to understand he wanted to be alone again.

“Yeah.” Halduron picked his head up out of his hands, flashed her a smile. “Just want to sit here for a little longer.”

“Well…” She hesitated. “If you’re alright.”

“I am.”

Kelantir nodded. “Don’t be too late,” she told him. “I don’t want to have to send a rescue team for you.”

He huffed a laugh, his first of the day. “I’m sure the Highmountain tauren would love the change from breaking up fights,” he joked, and she rolled her eyes. 

“Don’t die from exposure,” she said, in something more like her normal voice.

“I won’t.” Halduron watched her get to her feet, click her tongue to call her hawkstrider. Watched her shove one boot in the saddle and swing her leg over. “Be careful going back,” he cautioned. “Roots.” The one difference, he thought, between the Highmountain trees and the Thalassian were their thick, gnarled roots that breached the soil, ready to snag unsuspecting hawkstrider feet. 

Kelantir gave him a cheeky salute and tugged lightly on the reins. He didn’t watch her go, already lost in thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how hard it is to talk about Rommath here without spoiling what I haven't posted yet in Enough. (I'm working on that too!) Also I hope the implication is clear that Kel, with her use of "they" rather than "she" or "he" when discussing her hypothetical Forsaken love, is bi.
> 
> Hal, my baby, my boy. We're getting there, fam.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Velonara finally listens to Alina, and talks to Halduron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this instead of the end of Enough, and I'm not sorry.

She heard the yelling before she saw him. Heard the snarling and the _thwap!_ of pulled bowstrings. By the time she’d arrived in the little clearing, she found him carefully inspecting a dead saber, arrows protruding from its chest and face. Halduron had always been a good shot.

Highmountain cats were larger than the lynxes of Quel’Thalas, their feet alone as wide as any elf’s chest. Their heads were massive, with great yellow fangs, and their eyes glowed a deep, unsettling sunset red. Yet despite their enormous size, the mountain lions moved quietly, almost completely silent through the fallen leaves and rocky streams. They were unnerving, and if they’d existed in Quel’Thalas no elves would have lived past the age of Dath’Remar. 

Halduron was covered in scratches, some shallow and others… decidedly not. He held one arm stiffly, and it was pouring blood from a deep gouge on his bicep, but that didn’t stop him from using the hand attached to that arm to brace himself as he gently worked his arrows free of the body. The one in the beast’s eye came easily, but the other in its chest proved more difficult, and Halduron was sweating with effort. He broke it in the extraction, and swore, but in the end managed to carefully pry out the arrowhead. After setting the arrows and his knife aside, he placed his bloodied hands on the beast’s great shoulder, and she watched the movement of his lips as he murmured a silent prayer. 

(Not all Farstriders were so reverent of nature, but Halduron always had been. He didn’t like to kill an animal if he could help it.)

She wondered where Dal’diel was. The bird had never been shy in the face of danger; more than once, she had seen him charge a foe, striking out with substantial legs and sharp talons, snapping bones with his strong, cruel beak. The Amani had a healthy fear of blue hawkstriders thanks to Dal’diel. But Dal wasn’t there, and as she watched, Halduron shrugged himself out of his ruined shirt and used his teeth to tear it to strips, winding it with care around his injured arm to staunch the bleeding. It was a bad wound, and his face grew red as he tightened the bandage, tongue between his teeth. When he was done, he sat for a moment, splayed on his ass on the ground, and just breathed. 

“Fuck.” He spared a glance at the dead saber. “Fuck, buddy. Why do you all hate me? What have I ever done to you?” 

She almost laughed. Animals loved Halduron but not, for some reason, cats. She remembered shooting the lynx he’d brought back to camp, injured but alive. He’d intended to nurse it back to health and release it once it was well, but the lynx had had other ideas. Missing Halduron’s face by a hair, it had struck out at him and attacked ﹣ and not just him, but all of them in camp. It probably would have killed someone if she hadn’t shot it. 

(And that wasn’t even his only misadventure with lynxes, either.)

It seemed the lions of Highmountain carried the same prejudice as their smaller cousins.

It was some time before the thick, heavy footfalls sounded, and a large elderhorn ambled into view. Its saddle was crooked and its reins snapped clean off its bridle, and it was looking at Halduron with wide, curious eyes.

“And where did _you_ run off to?” he chastised. But he pulled himself to his feet and eased his way back to the animal, heaving its saddle back in place and digging around in its pack. He produced some clean linens, which he wound around his seeping bandage, and a large skinning knife, and after a moment, the deep metallic scent of blood filled the air as he began cleaning and gutting the lion’s body. His movements were precise, and she felt a familiar wave of nostalgia wash over her as she watched him work. He had always boasted about his knife work, about the clean lines of his cuts and the intactness of his hides. His arm slowed him down, and bled fresh through his dressing, but soon he had a beautiful pelt, into which he piled the meat and tied in a bloody bundle. The Highmountain tribe may have use for the bones but Halduron didn’t, and she watched him set them aside. He took a claw from one of the beast’s massive paws, and after some deliberation, she saw him carefully extract one of its canines as well. It would make for an impressive knife, once it was cleaned and sharpened. 

And then he lashed the hide and meat to the elderhorn’s side, and the beast bellowed in protest. “Hush,” he grumbled, hauling himself into the saddle. “You don’t waste meat.” And then after a moment, “You don’t eat meat, so you wouldn’t know. But now you do.” And then he laughed as though he’d just said something ridiculously funny, and tapped the moose gently with the heel of his boot. “Let’s go back, come on.”

  
  


He still stank of blood when she saw him later, sitting in the lodge with a blonde ranger, a scowl on his face and a mug of ale in one fist. He was still shirtless, and the ranger was bent close, stitching together the ugly wound on his arm with coarse thread. 

“Why can’t you leave the cats alone?” the ranger was sighing. 

“I was leaving it alone!” Halduron protested. “I was riding back to the lodge, minding my own business!”

The ranger rolled her eyes. “You never mind your own business.”

“I was that time!”

The ranger smacked him, and rolled her eyes again when he cried out. “Sit still, or I can’t sew.”

“You can’t sew for shit.”

“Do you want to do this yourself?”

He laughed. “I’ll just bathe it in some ale. It’ll be fine, Kel.”

“How are you still alive?”

She felt a tap on her shoulder, and with difficulty drew her eyes away from Halduron. It hurt, somewhere deep inside. She’d always used to stitch up his wounds.

She found herself face to face with a pale elf in dark armor. Fuck. She knew this idiot.

“Hello, dark lady,” Moorgoth said, eyes glinting with delight at having finally found her. (Unlike Alina, who thought the so-called death hunters were romantic, she had no time for them and their odd preoccupation with death.) “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

She rolled her eyes. “You seem to have stumbled upon me in a generous burst of serendipity. I’d ask that you leave, so that I might enjoy my evening in peace.” Not that it was peaceful, watching another woman tend to Halduron. But it would be decidedly more peaceful than enduring Moorgoth’s fawning over her.

He chuckled. “My dear Velonara, allow me the honor of your company, at least for a little while.” 

He really was thick, she decided, and his use of her given name ﹣ as if he _knew_ her, as if they were friends ﹣ grated on her nerves. She stood, fixing him with a piercing glare. “No.” And then she left, melting into the shadows so he could not follow. 

  
  
  


“Oh, I think he’s dreamy,” Alina gushed. Velonara scowled.

“You don’t even like men.”

“I can still appreciate the beauty of one.”

“He’s an imbecile.” 

“I seem to remember you having a thing for stupidity,” her friend teased, and the look Velonara shot her could have chilled the blood in her veins if it were still possible.

A beat. “Are you going to come down, or do I have to come up?”

“Leave me alone.” 

But Alina shimmied up the tree anyway, and straddled the branch to sit beside her. “You’re in a mood.” 

“I’m always in a mood. It’s called being dead.” 

“Some of us attempt to make the best of it.” 

“Some of you are idiots.”

Alina rolled her eyes. “Stop sulking,” she demanded. 

“You can’t give me orders. I’m your superior.”

“My ass you are,” her friend snorted. “Vel. What’s this about?”

“Nothing.” She didn’t want to talk about Halduron with her again. Didn’t want to talk about him sitting shirtless and whining in the lodge as someone else patched him back together. Didn’t want to admit that she’d watched him skin and gut a mountain lion for nearly three hours, too scared to reveal herself and even ask if he was alright. 

(He seemed fine anyway, she reasoned. His arm hadn’t been ripped off.)

“I just want to sit by myself for a minute,” she said after a moment. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched a blonde elf step out of the lodge, trudge in the direction of the blacksmith at the far side. It was the ranger from earlier, holding what looked like a fang. 

“Velonara.” And when she refused to look, Alina shoved her, hard enough that she nearly lost her balance and toppled out of the tree. 

_“What?”_ she snarled, eyes flashing.

“You’re becoming bitter.” Alina shifted position on the branch. “Coldhearted and close minded and bitter. I worry for you.”

“Aren’t you? After everything that’s happened, wouldn’t you be bitter too? If your wife were here?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Alina said coolly. “I killed my wife. I’ll never get the opportunity to find out.”

Velonara felt a wave of shame wash over her. That had been uncalled for. “Sorry,” she mumbled. Alina shook her head.

“It’s alright. It’s not, really, but it’s alright.” She drew her legs up, preparing to take her leave. “Take a breath, Vel. Don’t become detached and dead inside like some of us. You’ve always been too full of life for that.”

Velonara sighed. “That was a long time ago, Alina. We’re not children anymore.”

“No,” Alina agreed. “But we aren’t in the ground or Scourge either. Take some comfort in that and enjoy it.” 

And Velonara watched her leave, slipping quietly down the branches as though she’d lived all her life in them, and thought maybe her friend was right.

* * *

Forsaken didn’t sleep, not really. But they could doze, in a way. As if flipping a switch on one of those curious goblin machines, they could detach themselves from the goings on around them and float in a state of semi-consciousness. They couldn’t dream anymore, but the wandering thoughts flitting through their minds were something like dreams. 

Velonara had been dreaming when she heard her name.

“Alina,” she groused, rousing herself from the strange not-sleep she’d found herself in. “Please. Fuck. _Off.”_ Her friend had become far too invested in her lately, in Velonara’s opinion. Perhaps it had something to do with the anniversary of her death, just around the corner. Many Forsaken became pensive or morose at that time of year. 

“Not Alina,” came the reply, hesitant this time and more masculine than she’d first thought. “But. I can do that. If you’d like.”

Velonara twisted so rapidly she nearly fell, craning her stiff neck to confirm what she already knew. Halduron stood below her, bundled once more in warm furs and Shal’dorei silks. He’d bathed, and no longer did the smell of blood cling to him. He still held his arm somewhat awkwardly, and she saw he hadn’t put it in a sling. Idiot. 

It was darker than it had been when she’d started to doze, and far behind them the large bonfire had been started, casting Halduron in shadowy orange relief. People were coming and going from the stables more frequently than before, bedding down their animals for the night. She thought back to the elderhorn Halduron had ridden earlier instead of Dal’diel, and wondered if he had just come from the stables as well. 

“What.” She didn’t want him to fuck off. Didn’t want him to leave at all. Didn’t know why he was _here,_ staring at her with all the timidity of a green Farstrider about to fight his first troll. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked like that. 

Halduron scratched at his cheek nervously. There was a cut there, she saw, a shallow one. “I don’t know if you want to see me,” he started, but she cut him off.

“I always want to see you.” 

She said it without thinking, and blanched. Stupid. There was no reason to admit such things, no reason to still feel that way. (As much as she denied it, she had thought of Halduron every day for the past ten years.) The ring under her glove dug painfully into her finger as she shifted her weight. 

Halduron’s eyes were huge green orbs (and she found she liked them, more so than the blue they’d been) and he swallowed thickly. He took a step towards the tree, placed a hand on it. “Vel.”

Velonara needed the distance of the tree. Needed Halduron to stay on the ground. Felt her heart clench painfully as he quietly judged his climbing ability against the smooth bark. But he didn’t climb it, and instead lowered himself to the forest floor, plastering his back against the trunk. For a long time, the only sound was the commotion at the bonfire, the dwarvish mountaineers passing out tankards of ale, and some fool with a tame bear flopping down in the warm glow.

* * *

It was difficult, sitting quietly with Velonara. Every part of him screamed to _say_ something, to climb the tree and take her in his arms and never let her go again. He forced himself to sit there, at the base of the tree, telling himself that there was nothing wrong with the silence. He toyed with the mountain lion claw in the pouch at his belt; he’d come to give it to her. It didn’t seem right to send it in a letter when she was right there, but now that he was in front of her, it was all he could do not to violate the boundaries she’d thrown up between them. This wasn’t like when they were young, when they were rangers in the forests of Quel’Thalas and he could needle her all he liked. This wasn’t the same as when he’d stolen her right off the sand and thrown her into the bay on a drunken whim and a prayer that she might, just might, return his affections. 

When they were younger, they’d often sat in silence and sometimes even in or under trees. Velonara liked trees, liked to climb them and hide in them, and while Halduron wasn’t quite the graceful monkey she was, he enjoyed straddling the branch with the trunk at his back and her in his arms, the two of them the only people in the world. Sometimes they’d fletch arrows or sharpen knives, or he would pluck a particular fine blade of grass and use it to play a noisy tune before Velonara would snatch it away, claiming damage to her hearing. They’d bedded down beneath trees, huddling against the warm feathery bodies of hawkstriders, Dal’diel preening their hair like they were hawkstriders themselves. They’d spent plenty a silent hour together before. So why did it hurt so much now? Why did it feel so _wrong_ now, not to speak to her? It wasn’t like he had nothing to say. 

He leaned his head against the tree and squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel every painful beat of his heart beneath his skin; he felt fragile as a bird. 

A soft sound came from somewhere to his left, and his ears flicked towards it. Halduron sat very, very still; he almost dared not to breathe. Velonara crept forward slowly, like a frightened animal, as though at any moment Halduron might attack or break down or explode. He bit his tongue to keep quiet. Long ago, he would have laughed at her for her caution, would have whirled to face her and pressed close, teasing. She would have rolled her eyes, shoved him. Longer ago, before they were close, before they could even tolerate each other, she might have smacked him. 

_Light,_ and even that would be better than this. The fierce scowl that spread across her face, nose wrinkling in disgust. The cold fire of her eyes as she surveyed him, the barely harnessed insults lying in wait behind bared teeth. The clench of her fists as she screamed at him, having been worked up beyond all composure. Only he had ever had that effect on her. Velonara had always been a bastion of aplomb and fortitude until Halduron had come along. And Halduron had delighted in watching her come undone, in being the one to take apart every carefully crafted layer until she was shaking and raw before him. Even when they’d held nothing but contempt for one another, he had never been able to shake the absolute _need_ to needle her, to push every button until all pretense of calm fell away and she was furious and exposed. It had intrigued him, way back then. No woman had ever submitted after such a vicious fight. 

And to think, all it had taken was alcohol and one burning blossom crown for her to crack. For them both to see each other in new light. If they’d gotten drunk sooner, could they have avoided all those centuries of hatred and scorn? Would they have fallen in love sooner? Would they even be here right now?

He didn’t know. All Halduron knew was that they _had_ fallen in love, that one day they had hated each other and then they hadn’t, and that the love he bore her stabbed into his chest with every beat of his heart until he could hardly stand it, until he shuddered a great, heaving sob and with it came the undeniable truth: _“I miss you.”_ By the Sunwell did he miss her, and the agonizing knowledge that she was right beside him but still so far away threatened to tear him apart.

* * *

A not insignificant portion of the Forsaken population held contempt for the living. It was easier, in their minds, to grasp their undeaths with someone to blame, even if that _someone_ was their old lives and everyone in them. 

It would be so much easier if she could hate Halduron, Velonara thought. If her death could erase their five hundred years and bring them full circle, back to that day at the Enclave, back to the scorn she’d felt for the stupid new recruit covered in leaves and lynx scat. If she could have just gone back to an approximation of her old life ﹣ and it wouldn’t have been that _difficult,_ if she’d really tried. She still had Alina and Lenara. She still had jokes about the unlikely human Farstrider Sylvanas had shoehorned in, still had long restless nights on patrol and civilians to keep safe. 

Halduron Brightwing had shown her, through tenacity and stubbornness and sheer dumbassery, what she had been missing all those years. Halduron Brightwing had shown her that there was more to life than escaping the map her parents had drawn for her, that she could make her own decisions about her life and enjoy them. He was infuriating, and sometimes she swore he’d been _born_ to drive her into a homicidal rage, but he was also sweet and kind and loyal. Alina had teased her more than once for the way she stared as he interacted gently with the stables’ hawkstriders, talking to them as though they were people and taking great pains to ensure, no matter how desperate the situation, that they were seen to before he cared for himself. She heard stories of his bravery against the Amani, and when she and several others had been captured, he hadn’t rubbed her face in it like she might have. He hadn’t been the one to free her, but once they’d all trooped back to camp, once they were safe, he had asked after each one of them. Bandaged the wounded, and passed around overflowing wineskins. Lilana, their newest recruit, had been traumatized, and Halduron had sat with her long after many of the others had gone to bed, and just let her cry. 

It would have been so much easier to have forgotten all those moments. To have forgotten the way he laughed, the way the grin would spread over his face and the boom he’d released, long and loud. The tenderness of his fingers as he brushed a strand of hair from her face. The mischievous glint to his eyes as he teased her, threw bits of grass on her face as she dozed, and the sweet, loving way he would, every time they were separated, return to her with some sort of souvenir. Troll jujus and dragonhawk feathers, clumps of soft moss or interesting leaves, or the pink, prickly flower puffs that grew near Tranquillien. She had never appreciated them back then. She had never appreciated _him_ back then. 

His head lay against the tree trunk, eyes squeezed tightly shut. His lashes were wet, and suddenly a sob burst forth. The tears started to flow in earnest. 

_“I miss you.”_

It would be so much easier if she could have hated him. 

“I miss you too.” The words came on a whisper, almost too soft to hear beneath the current of tears and the bustle of the nearby bonfire, but they were there, and Halduron heard them. He’d always heard her. 

Tentatively, she reached for him. Undeath was not about love or touch or emotion, and she knew why. Ten years ago flashed in the back of her mind: newly undead, returning to Silvermoon. Her friends hadn’t come ﹣ Lenara’s husband and Alina’s wife hadn’t lived in the city. But Halduron had, and he’d wanted to see her, and the sight of her ﹣ living but not, with taut skin and too bright eyes ﹣ had driven him to tears. She’d felt the shudder that had run through him as he held her, though he tried to hide it and she tried to ignore it. 

If she touched him now, would he reject her again? 

The leather of her gloves tapped against his shoulder and his eyes flew open. For a long, painful moment they stared at one another, and though she didn’t breathe anymore, her chest grew tight and a lump formed in her throat. 

“Vel.”

And then she was in his arms, where she was always meant to be, squashed in his furs and against his chest, his wet face buried in her hair. He did not pull away when her arms went around him, merely tightened his own hold on her, sobbing in her ear.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Vel, I was an asshole and an idiot and I never should have left you.” 

She sat frozen in his arms, chest heaving. He was speaking so fast, almost incomprehensible, but she heard him. Her cold flesh tingled with a feeling she couldn’t name. 

“Vel, we said ﹣ _I_ said ﹣ I would love you ﹣ I _do_ love you, Vel, I never stopped. Not a moment passes where I don’t think of you, every minute of every day for ten years﹣”

He was babbling, as he always had when he was excited or upset. His body was warm around her, seeping into her stiff muscles, and the hair that had fallen into her face smelled like sunshine and soap and _Halduron._

“﹣can never forgive me ﹣ I was stupid and grieving and I wouldn’t forgive me﹣”

“Halduron.” Even over his own sobbing he heard her, and stilled in her arms, breathing ragged and uneasy. “Halduron, stop.” 

* * *

This was it. This was when she pushed him away. This was when she fled.

“Halduron, stop.” 

It went against every instinct but he forced himself to relax. To release his hold on her. He could not force her to come back to him. If she wanted to leave, he had to let her. 

“Halduron.” Iron hands were on his shoulders, pushing him back. He let her, and when they were face to face he made himself look her in the eye. Her face was tight, her crimson eyes too bright, and he thought that if she could, she would be crying as hard as he was. 

“Halduron, you ﹣ what the fuck are you ﹣ why should I _forgive_ you?” She was scowling, powering through her confusion and emotions, using the look as a shield. “What did ﹣ what did you even do? Halduron… I left _you._ I died.” 

The insane urge to laugh nearly overtook him, and he stomped it down. “You didn’t have a choice. I did, and I left.” He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “I loved you, and I left you.”

“You fucking ﹣ in what world did you leave me?” He couldn’t tell if she was angry, actually angry. “You sent ﹣ ten years ﹣ gifts and trinkets and _crap,_ Halduron ﹣”

“I couldn’t ﹣ Vel, it was the only way I﹣”

“I _know,_ you asshole, but I didn’t ﹣ I never﹣”

“You never did before!” he cried. “You never gave ﹣ I was always the one ﹣”

“How could I ever ﹣ you stupid ass ﹣ when all you did ﹣”

He didn’t know what they were arguing about anymore. He didn’t know when they’d _started_ arguing. All Halduron knew was that she hadn’t fled, she hadn’t run off like she had before. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’m sorry.”

And her face screwed up, like it always did when she cried. “Why are you sorry?” As if she didn’t know. As if she hadn’t been there, ten years ago, carefully extracting herself from his embrace so he wouldn’t have to. 

“I left you,” he repeated. “I never should have. It was the stupidest, most painful thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve regretted it every day since.” He blinked furiously, eyes overflowing. “Vel.” 

It was automatic. How he’d solved all their worst fights, over five hundred years. It was so easy and natural and _right_ to lean forward, to press his lips to hers and kiss her as though they’d never been separated, as though nothing had happened. She had chastised him, in the past, accused him of dodging the subject and trying to distract, but he could think of no other way to convey to her just how much he meant every word. How much he loved her. How badly he wanted her back.

* * *

His lips were warm against hers, despite the cold Highmountain twilight. They kissed her hungrily and tenderly, his hand coming up to tangle in her hair, and Velonara found she could not push him away. Did not _want_ to push him away. For all it was wrong ﹣ she was dead and he was not, he was a living and breathing elf and she just a shell of one ﹣ it felt _right,_ his lips on hers. She fisted the furs around his shoulders and held him close and when they broke apart, he leaned his forehead against hers and did not break her stare. 

“Please. Vel. My little lynx.” And the pet name stirred something deep within her, something she’d thought died long ago. “Please.”

“I’m ﹣ I’m _dead,_ Halduron. We can’t…” The skin of his face and neck were smooth, no trace of the gooseflesh she remembered the last time he’d held her. No revulsion in his eyes. 

He chuckled, short and without mirth. “I’m dead too,” he murmured. “You took me with you when you died.” 

She stared at him. For all she wanted to roll her eyes, to shove him away, to snarl it _wasn’t the same_ and _your heart still beats,_ she didn’t. Couldn’t. They were still the same people, deep down, despite Arthas Menethil and Sylvanas and dark magics keeping her body whole, and the only thing that had managed to penetrate her cold heart, the only thing she’d ever managed to feel since her death, was the love she had for Halduron. 

He cupped her face with his bare hands, and he did not shudder at the chill of her skin. “If you let me. Vel, if you let me, I will never, ever leave you again.” 

He didn’t care. He didn’t _care_ that the blood no longer rushed in her veins, that her lungs no longer breathed. He’d had ten years away from her and all he wanted was her back, as though undeath were a trivial, ridiculous problem that could be overcome with some clever thinking. What was he even asking of her? He wasn’t like those preposterous “death hunters,” seeing only beauty in pale skin and crimson eyes. He just… 

She placed her hands over his own, the leather of her gloves creaking gently, and leaned close to kiss him again. It was softer this time, full of sadness and longing and _love,_ and he was breathless when they pulled away. 

“Do you remember,” he murmured, stroking her hands with his thumbs, “what you wrote to me, before you came to Silvermoon?”

Of course she remembered. It had hurt, and she had sobbed until her lungs burned with air she no longer needed, but she’d had to say it. She’d had to tell him. _“I love you,”_ she whispered. _“I’ll always love you, until the stars do fall from the sky, until the dragons age and turn to dust﹣”_

 _“And the Great Dark Beyond takes us all,”_ he finished, voice strained, and his eyes leaked again. “And I told you, _There will only ever be you. I’ve loved you since the day I put that burning blossom crown on your head.”_

She could picture it, that hazy, drunken Midsummer night. The annoyance at having stumbled upon him, when all she’d wanted was to watch the fireworks and drink. The lack of animosity in his voice as he invited her to sit. The soft brush of burning blossoms as he’d placed them in her hair. 

_“If you can love me until the stars fall_ ﹣”

 _“I can love you longer than that.”_ The pressure behind her eyes was immense, as though they held tears unable to escape. “I remember.” It was engraved on the locket he’d sent her, the one she wore at her throat and never took off. The one she opened, late at night, running her fingers over the words carved in dark metal. “Halduron. It won’t ﹣ it won’t be the _same_ ﹣”

“I don’t care.” His voice was very soft, crackling on the consonants like it would break. “Velonara, I don’t care what it looks like. What it has to be.” He stroked his thumb over her cheek. “I can’t do this anymore, without you.” 

She stared at him, eyes wide. 

“I don’t _want_ to do this without you anymore.” 

* * *

She laughed then, strained and high-pitched. “It’s not like ﹣ Halduron, we can’t exactly ﹣ _Sylvanas_ ﹣”

“Fuck Sylvanas.” Her eyes widened. “ _Fuck_ Sylvanas, and Lor’themar, and all the rest.” He’d never said anything so treasonous in his life. “They’re not part of this.” 

Velonara made a strangled noise. “I owe my ﹣ I’m _here_ because of Sylvanas.” 

“We’ll figure it out,” he promised. “Vel. I have been miserable since the day you left to the Undercity. Every fucking day. Don’t lie to me and say you haven’t been too.”

She was leaning into the hand against her cheek, and it was so strange, the look in her eyes. Watery without tears, distraught. 

“I swore when I gave you that ring to spend my life with you. You _kept_ my ring, Velonara.”

“You wouldn’t let me give it back.”

“Did you really want to?”

A beat. 

“No.” 

His eyes bore into her. He didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care what Sylvanas thought, or Lor’themar, or Liadrin or Neeluu or Rommath. He didn’t care what his sister would say, or his father or stepmother, Salandria or his nephews. And he knew, because he _knew her,_ that she didn’t either. That her friends wouldn’t fault her, would understand. He knew because he’d _known them,_ way back when. Alina, who teased her for picking on him, and Lenara, the romantic. If they said something ﹣ if any of them said _anything_ ﹣ he would sweep Velonara away, and they’d live in the mountains just the two of them, as they had before, and nothing would separate them ever again. 

“Come back with me, Vel.” He hooked his thumbs over hers, leaned in close. Pressed soft, tender kisses to her cheeks, the tip of her nose, the backs of her eyelids. Brushed his lips once more over hers. “Let me come back to you.” 

* * *

She trembled beneath his touch. She was shaking, and she bit her lip to stop it quivering. 

“Let me come back to you.” 

She broke. Like a dam in a flood, she broke. Velonara melted into him, under his soft lips and gentle hands, all her pent up anger and sorrow ebbing in the face of how Halduron loved her. She had always believed he could never want her, not like this. That all the gifts he’d sent over the years were his way of apologizing for the man he could not be. But here he was ﹣ no longer consumed by the grief of the Scourge, the slaughter of their countrymen and the loss of their Farstrider brothers and sisters ﹣ and he loved her. He wanted her still. He _accepted_ her as she was now. As he always had. 

Velonara let her hands drop from his. Wrapped her arms around his neck, buried her face in his long blonde hair. She didn’t feel cold sitting there with him. She didn’t feel cold for perhaps the first time since she’d died. 

“Okay,” she breathed. “Dalah’surfal, okay.”

* * *

Lor’themar worried. He’d been confident in Halduron, knew his friend would work well in Highmountain, his easy demeanor an asset amongst so many different races, with so many different traditions and ways of thinking. If he could become friends with Tatai, the Darkspear ambassador he’d once attacked in drunken rage, he could at least be civil to the members of the Alliance. 

He’d asked Kelantir Bloodblade to keep an eye on him, however. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Halduron. It was more because Lor’themar feared Sylvanas would send representatives to Trueshot Lodge as well. Forsaken humans, and her own dark rangers. 

(And she had, he thought, reading Kelantir’s letters with increasing distress. Alina, _and Velonara._ He’d sworn so loudly he’d startled his guards, who had burst into his office with a slamming and splintering of doors looking for an assassin.)

“He’ll be alright,” Liadrin had soothed. “He’s a big boy. He’s kept himself together so far.” 

They both knew that the way Halduron “kept himself together” would be a detriment to both the work the lodge was doing and his own mental health. 

So Lor’themar worried, and on the day of Halduron’s return, sat wound so tightly that his assistant had kindly suggested he go home early. He left, glad for the excuse. 

The walk to Farstrider’s Square did nothing to ease his nerves, and he was relieved to learn that Salandria was home, boots and dirty gear piled in a heap by the door. If nothing else, his daughter would be a welcome distraction until he saw his friend. 

Lor’themar lived simply. His townhome, though higher end than the city apartments, was small, boasting only two bedrooms and a room for bathing. His living room, sitting room, and receiving area were all one room, separated from his kitchen by a cut out in the wall that held shutters he rarely closed. The front hall opened into both the kitchen and living room, and it was a short enough walk that he could see Salandria already from the door. Her hair was pulled back and messy, and there was a bruise on her shoulder reminiscent of the flat of a blade. She’d been training hard since Liadrin had left for Suramar, determined to prove that she was _not_ too young to make the trip.

(She was, in Lor’themar’s opinion. All of seventeen years old and thinking herself grown. He paid no mind to that fact that at seventeen, he’d run away from his father’s house four years prior, and had attached himself to the Sanctum of the Sun and Vandellor, performing odd jobs in exchange for his room and already dreaming of joining the Farstriders.) 

“I’m home,” he called. Salandria could have stayed in Liadrin’s lavish apartments in the Spire while her mother was gone, but he was pleased she’d wanted to stay with him. He’d never had the desire to merge their households, he and Liadrin preferring their privacy and separate homes, but at times he was concerned that Salandria was too distant from normal life, shut up in the Spire. Growing up too used to servants and finery. He thought it good for her to spend some time in his home. He did his own cooking, his own laundry and cleaning, and always had. 

“Ann’da!” His daughter’s head whipped around in the direction of the front hall, and she leaned back into the couch the better to see him. “Uncle Halduron’s back!” She held up something in one hand, ivory and glinting in the afternoon light pouring through the window. “Look what he brought!” 

He left his ridiculous robes of office at the door in a pile. (Liadrin hated that, but she wasn’t here to reprimand him.) Halduron sat cross-legged on the floor, a heavy pack deposited on a nearby chair. He must have come straight here. 

“Welcome back, Hal!” Lor’themar yanked him up and hugged him hard. Maybe too hard, but he’d been very worried.

“Ouch! Lor, I can’t breathe!” Halduron laughed, thumping his shoulder goodnaturedly. “Let me go, you oaf.” 

“Do you have presents for me?” he teased. 

“Of course not. I don’t love you like I do Salandria.” 

Salandria stuck her tongue out at him, and he laughed. “I’ll remember that, Hal.” To his daughter, he said, “I bet he told you he took that off a troll.” 

“I _have_ taken things from trolls, and you know it.” Halduron grinned. “Highmountain doesn’t have trolls, though, Lor.” 

It was a knife Salandria held, he saw. A faint sheen of yellow colored the blade, which had been set in a handle made of strange, blue-white metal and carved with odd symbols. When she’d been a child, a smaller child than she was now, Liadrin had forbidden Halduron from bestowing upon her weapons ﹣ arrowheads carved in Amani style, longbows made from dead treants. “Children don’t need weapons,” she’d said, even as she armed Salandria with training swords and later, real blades. With Liadrin in Suramar, it seemed Halduron had taken every opportunity to give her an aneurysm upon her return. 

(Lor’themar nearly agreed with Liadrin on the subject. Nearly. Except that when he was thirteen, Vandellor had gifted him his first knife as protection against the Amani who so often threatened the Sanctum, and Lor’themar could not find it in himself to deny Salandria at seventeen what he’d had four years sooner.) 

“Uncle Hal said it’s from a mountain lion,” Salandria said, holding it out to him by the handle. 

“Vicious little shits,” Halduron muttered. “Attacked me out of nowhere.”

Lor’themar laughed again, examining the knife. The blade was made of a frighteningly large fang. “Why do cats hate you?”

“I don’t know!”

“The sanctum cats like you,” Salandria chirped. 

“They don’t know better,” Lor’themar quipped. It was a nice blade, much nicer than the crude knife from Vandellor, which he no longer used but could not bear to part with. He handed it back to Salandria, who set it carefully on the table. 

“How was Highmountain?” Lor’themar saw his friend out of the corner of his eye, settling himself on the floor again. He thought, perhaps, with Salandria here, Halduron might not get as upset as he would if it were just them. Salandria didn’t know about Velonara ﹣ she wasn’t a Farstrider, and they didn’t discuss serious issues like that in front of her ﹣ but she did know that Halduron was sometimes very sad, that sometimes he did things he probably shouldn’t to try and make himself happy. 

To his surprise, Halduron grinned. “You would have _loved_ it,” he gushed. “Lor, the mountains, the trees… There were so many _fish_ in the rivers, Lor. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat a fish again, I ate so many.”

“Yeah?” Even with Salandria in the room, he hadn’t expected anything less than melancholy. If he didn’t know any better, he would sworn the emotion on his friend’s face was joy. 

“Yeah. It was gorgeous. You should take the long way to visit Lia, go through Highmountain.” Lor’themar had seen maps of the Broken Isles, and Highmountain was a _very_ long way from Suramar. 

“We’re going to visit Mother?” Salandria’s eyes lit up.

“No.” 

“Awww.” 

“Oh come on,” Halduron goaded. “They’d let Salandria in. She’s just a kid.”

“I’m not a kid!” 

“Seventeen is considered childhood.”

“I’m _not_ a child!”

Lor’themar watched the exchange with bemusement. The Halduron he had sent to the Broken Isles had been reluctant, only following orders, and he’d expected a similar Halduron to return. He’d expected a _worse_ Halduron to return, if he were honest. He’d expected to be cleaning up empty bottles and fording hair trigger tempers. This Halduron was… not that.

“Hal,” he said carefully. “Everything alright?”

And Halduron looked at him, an easy grin on his face from goading his goddaughter. He looked more relaxed than Lor’themar could recall seeing him in a long, long time. 

“Yeah. Yeah, Lor. It really is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #FreeSalandria
> 
> Little Lynx and Trueshot Remedy are part of a trilogy (decided by me as I was writing this chapter), and as I played the war campaign in BFA (with my character on whom I always pick the "evil" options, so I saw a LOT of Sylvanas), I noticed that Velonara is not IN the war campaign. In fact, she only makes one appearance on the ship, and none at all in the Most Loyal or Old Soldier storylines. Curious. The end of the trilogy will concern that fact.

**Author's Note:**

> Ngl, before I created this crackship, I sorta shipped Velonara/Moorgoth because of the secret hunter quest in Trueshot. Then I saw the error of my ways. In tribute, I used some dialogue from the secret quest here. 
> 
> I've just done Heritage of the Sin'dorei for the second time and watched Velonara's death... Oof. Right in the feels...


End file.
